Cauldron Cakes
by books4evah
Summary: She was not the brave one, nor the smart one, nor the pretty one. She was never the superlative: not with her friends and not with her family. She was the average one. This is the untold story of Marlene McKinnon. MarleneOC, LilyJames, AliceFrank
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

AN: It has been a while since I actually wrote a story for fanfiction, and even longer since I have written something with more than one chapter. I was inspired by Marlene, and this story, in two parts, will tell her side. (With constant reference to Alice and Frank and Lily and James, of course.) The last time I wrote a multichapter fic, I updated every day. That is not happening this time, as I am trying to write a better and more thorough story. I hope you like it!

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><p>Memories flashed before my eyes as I fell. Hogwarts, Lily and Frank, my family. Graduating, getting a job, exploring the world.<p>

Twenty-three is not a good age to die.

But, in my last few moments on Earth, there was one thing that stuck out more than the rest. It was really rather unsuitable. Why should that be the one thing that sticks, after years of more pressing times and adventures.

It was bad enough for me to be thinking about Cornelius. I had forgotten about Lily and Frank or Marcy and Margaret or even Goneril and Alastor. Why was Cornelius—the one who had gotten me into this mess—taking up the time that could have been devoted to my family or friends?

But not even Cornelius could fully monopolize my last thoughts, as all the memories came rushing back.


	2. Chapter 1

The first time I met Cornelius, I was at a wedding.

Obviously not my own wedding. I had always doubted I would ever get married—oh, the irony—and had believed I'd end up the spinster (moonlighting as a cat lady) down the street.

Anyway, my good friend Frank Longbottom was getting married to his longtime sweetheart Alice. They'd been dating since first year or probably before that. (This is when Frank corrects me and says since fourth year. But it might as well be since first year, due to all the mushy-gushy love-y-ness that I am forced to deal with on a daily basis—without even the common courtesy of a few fights here and there, to spice up life for the poor, unfortunate soul who must live with them. I really should have opted for living with Lily and James instead. Who cares if their sex lives are really loud? Who cares if they fight every day, really loudly? Who cares if their mysterious jobs-they-never-deigned-to-explain-to-me lead them to loudly pop in at random hours in the night? For someone who works in the Department of Transportation, drama is definitely worth it).

It was eight years ago to the day the happy couple had met—Frank absolutely had to have his wedding on their first anniversary (probably so Alice couldn't forget it), despite the fact that it was a Sunday, and the common courtesy of letting people sleep in and wallow in their hangover miseries (because some people are not Aurors, so cannot afford effective hangover potions. Also, they are lazy, and would never actually be bothered to spend their time making said potions because they would rather draw suspicious doodles on Frank's sleeping face).

I remember their meeting almost as clearly as I can remember the bed I spent most of my time in (participating in such events as grumping, procrastinating, ignoring my friends' pleas for me to do something with my life other than eating cauldron cakes, and eating cauldron cakes). Of course, I'd like to say I don't remember it out of will, but out of the many times Frank talked about it, blatantly forgetting the million other times he'd told me.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend—the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year—and the three of us, Frank, Lily, and I, were out to Hogsmeade, bright-faced and excited for what we had not seen in months. (This was before we realized a troll wouldn't eat us if we broke the rules and before Peter Pettigrew showed Frank and I the hidden passage to Hogsmeade). Cold rain pounded down upon us, herding us urgently out of the few, moldy carriages into the cramped Three Broomsticks. My damp cloak quickly dried in the stuffy warmth created by hordes of people in a space made for half the number, my hair frizzed the way no straight hair should, and, of course, my shoes decided to leave my poor feet cold and miserable for the duration of the trip. Honestly, I could have been swooning over James Potter, and instead I had been constantly distracted by the drowned-rat feeling my feet had been experiencing.

Yes, I was in Hogsmeade on a date with James Potter. _The_ James Potter. The James Potter whom all girls fell in love with at least once in their Hogwarts career, the James Potter who would later leave me utterly untouched in pursuit of my friend, the James Potter who, to all astonishment and awe, would later propose to the formerly unassailable Lily Evans and get a yes. Looking back at Hogwarts, this just might have been the highlight of my schooling—a date with _James Potter_—and I completely disregarded it, for the sake of my feet. Really, who cares if they ended up in need of amputation? (They didn't). If I had flirted with him and done my part, my whole existence might have been altered.

Instead, I focused my energy on nonverbal spells for the purpose of warming my feet (and also not burning the table in the process), and practically forced Potter to turn to my best friend for any sort of conversation, truly introducing him to her for the first time, and allowing him to fall into a deep fixation for her. Curse you, you stupid fourth-year-me.

Not that I'm bitter, though, as bitter as I may sound. Sure, my life could have been completely different, but James and Lily are meant for each other, and from the limited conversations James and I have actually had (I think we've spoken alone maybe once) I doubt anything would have turned out too differently. It's just fun to dream.

But that's not the point.

Lily and I had a double date with two of the marauders—I, as you already know, had snagged James, and Lily was with Peter Pettigrew. Frank had no one, but we (at least Lily) felt guilty about leaving him all by himself, so he had tagged along, in hopes of snatching an impromptu date and making our double date into a triple.

"Longbottom, you know you're going to be a third wheel, right?" Potter had laughed as Lily explained his predicament.

"_Fifth wheel_," Peter coughed.

"Meh. _Fifth_ wheel," Potter corrected, elbowing Peter.

Lily and I slid into the booth, next to our respective dates, while Frank stood awkwardly for a second, until he apologized and started to walk off.

Of course, he hadn't gotten far when he walked right into a blonde who was aiming herself for James.

"James!" she exclaimed, as Frank stumbled backwards, nearly falling until he had the last minute sense to grab onto the back of my seat. "How are you?"

The blonde, as it turned out, was Alice Fletchley, a Gryffindor from the year above us, and whose parents worked with James' in the rich people part of the ministry.

"Oh dear," she turned to Frank. "Sorry about shoving you to the ground. Is there anything…?"

"Maybe you could be his date, Alice?" James suggested in Frank's silence.

"Wait, no"—Frank had begun to protest.

"Of course I will!" The beaming blonde proclaimed as she sat down, pulling Frank down after her. "But, I should like to know your name before we start dating."

"Frank," the bewildered boy replied. "Frank Longbottom."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Frank Longbottom. And you two are?"

Lily and I quickly introduced ourselves, and then Peter and I were off to get the butterbeers.

"So where are Black and Lupin?"

"Zonko's," was the terse reply. "They said they didn't like girls and dates and things."

"Sirius Black doesn't like girls and dates and things?" I raised my eyebrow.

"Not when he has to pay for them," Peter snorted.

"And I suppose Remus was too much of a prude to come?" I continued. "Does he ever date?"

"He…he has his reasons not to," Peter answered slowly.

I shrugged, and thanked Madame Rosmerta for the mugs of steaming beverage, as the two of us wrestled our way back, balancing the precariously full glasses, and pushing our way through to our table.

"What do you suppose Remus and Sirius are getting at Zonko's? Any insight on the newest prank?" I shouted at Peter, trying to capture his attention over the loud and obnoxious sixth years with their game of Exploding Snap.

"I can't—"

But I never got to hear what Peter was going to say (I could give you a pretty good guess, though). A yard or two away from our booth, we heard it. Everyone in the pub heard it. I'm pretty sure some people across the street heard it.

"POTTER, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF THERE!"

The sixth years went wild.

Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't gotten the butterbeer, but because I did, Potter had turned to Lily and decided she was somewhat pretty, so had asked her if she was available the next Hogsmeade weekend. Lily, however, was a much better friend than Potter, so told him to buzz off, and started to markedly ignore him.

He ignored this, and in a desperate plea for her attention, grabbed at her bag, holding it away from her. I'm told (and for the most part, I know) Lily wasn't too peachy about this, and had started clawing at Potter's face to get it back, kneeling on the bench to try and pull the bag out of his outstretched hand. (And I find it extremely relevant to note her chest would have been right in his face).

It wouldn't be enough for James to simply deny her of her purse, but he also had to poke through the contents.

Big mistake.

According to Lily (who cited this incident many times in each of her various anti-Potter rants throughout the years) that day just so happened to be one of _those_ days, and Lily, just like any other girl, did not exactly fancy the idea of James snooping through her tampons. Also, though Lily will deny this until the day she dies, I'm quite sure she didn't want James seeing the minimized copy of _Hogwarts; A History_ that even to this day she carries with her at all times.

And that was when we heard that infamous screech.

Let me tell you, sitting there, sipping those butterbeers afterwards was one of the most awkward situations I have ever encountered.

There I was, holding the mug on the table, my mouth resting on the lip, my eyes downcast to my shoes, where my feet were still soggy, trying, along with Peter, to shrink down between the constant bartering between Lily and James.

"You arse."

"Prude!"

"_Scumbag_."

As this was just the beginning of their argumentative relationship, the quality of the fight was probably not the best. Later on, in fifth year and so, they'd scream at each other until they were hoarse, or in seventh year when the arguments would escalate into steamy snogging sessions (granted, those weren't as fun to watch—unless you were a teen boy, and of course, and I never was). Now, the fourth year me didn't really know what to expect, so at the time I thought this was more hardcore than Dumbledore's beard.

"Why don't you focus on your own date?" Lily shot at Potter, venom dripping from her voice.

"Because you're more interesting, Evans, darling."

I should have said something. I really should have. I'll always regret it. Not just because I could have ended up with James (unlikely), but for the sake of my pride. After James said it, there was silence; even Alice and Frank, who'd strayed off into their own little world, looked up in quasi-horror. _Lily_ was rendered speechless. I think James himself had been shocked a bit. There was a definite gap for me to say something, and I can remember formulating something in my head—"You arsewhip, I am just as worthy as Lily. Maybe if you didn't spend all your time bragging you'd notice!"—that I probably would never have had the guts to say. I had just opened my mouth to start and say something a bit less inflammatory and—

There was a brief pop and a bright orange flash of light.

And my moment was over.

Despite the fact that James' statement would forever be engrained in my head, James and Lily and Alice and Frank would never think of it again. For the memory would be erased and replaced with the image of James in women's clothing and Lily in men's clothing.

More specifically, James was in Lily's clothing and vice versa.

With a shriek, Lily had realized she was in James' boxers of all things.

And James had realized he was in Lily's bra of all things. And proceeded to take off the lacey purple contraption and show it to the entire pub.

"_Black! Lupin!_" came the unforgiving cry of Lily Evans, who began to pull herself up out of the booth, and over me on her way to kill the two marauding pranksters, but was seriously deterred when she tripped and slipped on the oversized robes, and landed on the corner of the table, mostly in my poor lap, but head in James' crotch.

James continued seeking for treasure in the pockets of Lily's clothing, only made happier by the arrival of Lily's head.

"Ooh, what is this?" James exclaimed, pulling out a tampon.

Blushing furiously, Lily snatched the tampon from James's prodding fingers and leapt out of the booth, brandishing the tampon as a sort of weapon, but not before landing in a pool of butterbeer she had spilled in her earlier jaunt across the table.

"You toescum! Give me my bra!" she growled, and as James continued to examine the foreign article she tacked on a more desperate plea: "Potter, I'm serious. _Give me back my bra_," she whimpered in a desolate voice.

Just as my future could have been drastically changed at that point in time, James' could have been the same. But James refused to heed Lily's despondency, and ignored the very important fact that Lily had been pushed to her limit; she had been standing there, butterbeer down her (or, rather, James') shirt, tampon in her hand, and bra in James Potter's clutches for everyone to see. James could have made life easier for all of us (don't tell me you thought I actually enjoyed listening to all of Lily's constant spiels berating Potter), but instead he tried to save face and not allow Lily to retain her last shred of dignity.

Face nearly as red as her own hair, Lily slapped Potter for the first time, claimed her undergarments in his astonishment, and dashed off to catch the next carriage back to Hogwarts. It took a few seconds for James (who, I might add, was still sitting there in a skirt and too-small blouse) to get over his speechlessness at the incident, but when he did, he declared, "That's the girl I'm going to marry one day." I'm still not sure how one resounding blow could make a guy fall in love—if a guy hit me, I wouldn't be so brill about it—but from that day on, James was head over heels in love.

Three years later, I was the one forced to comfort Lily in her evolving feelings for James Potter. (Frank was _so_ lucky that he couldn't go into the girls' dormitory). And let me tell you, I have heard enough about that stupid incident with the bra. It took Lily a long time to get over it, and James…let's just say I do not envy what he had to do to win her over.

But I think I'll spare you that tale, as I'm pretty sure before I carried off on this tangent, I was talking about Alice and Frank, not Lily and James.

So, while Lily lived through her most embarrassing moment ever, and my feet were chilled to the bone, Frank was completely ignoring what had been happening around him in favor of chatting up Alice Fletchley. Somehow he convinced her to go to Madam Puddifoot's with him the next Hogsmeade Weekend. And from thence forth, Alice and Frank were the ironclad couple.

They were the dream couple, the 'it' couple, the perfect incarnation of what high school sweethearts should be. It was creepy how close they were—they were together forever. Except for that one year. But that year was a sort of glitch, and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Longbottom it wouldn't have happened.

But as I was saying, the whole school looked up to that pair. Girls dreamed of having relationships that would last that long, relationships were constantly put up to scrutiny against it, people joked that the Ravenclaws wouldn't win the Quidditch Cup until Frank and Alice broke up (but I'm pretty sure they won the year we were right out of Hogwarts, and Frank and Alice were still going strong then), and there was one year when the sorting hat even sang about them at the beginning of the year.

Basically, Frank and Alice are the sweetest couple—to the point where it's almost vomit inducing. After Hogwarts they both started Auror training—and of course they were accepted into healer training too—giving some nauseatingly valiant little speeches about how they couldn't let injustice live or whatever to me when they got their acceptance letters. They're the wholesome, picturesque couple that I can just see eating Frank's deliciously hearty and homemade breakfasts together. (It had been such a pity that I could no longer eat those breakfasts—a girl could get used to pampering like that). And then of course, they'd go to work and kiss goodbye as they went to kill some Death Eaters, and then come back to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Nothing like that image to bring out the bitter bitch within me.

Still, I love the pair dearly, and if weren't for the rather unfortunate fact that I had was alone in a deep sea of happily-ever-after-type couples, I'd have been completely contented and beamingly ecstatic. However, as it happened, I was desperately single, which leads me to my big bone to pick with them on that day.

See, Frank suffers from a severe case of OCD (according to me, at least) and so he couldn't deal with an odd number of people at the wedding party table—or something like that anyway.

So, he approached me a couple weeks before the wedding and demanded I bring a date. Clearly he doesn't have any tact, because he completely disregarded my apparent lack of appeal to the opposite gender, so I was forced to invite my older brother Martin.

I figure I should just come out with this—no point in covering it up now—I had never even kissed a boy. (Despite what Lily says, Davy Gudgeon will never count—it was kiss on the cheek and I was in no way willing). I know to some people (the people who've been having sex since age thirteen) that little detail is a bit shocking, but if you've gone to a school as prudish as Hogwarts it really shouldn't be a surprise.

At Hogwarts, everyone likes the system of pairing off and staying that way for eternity. By the time we graduate, everyone has at least met their future spouse, and gets married within a few years. Too bad that our year had one more girl (me) than there were boys.

And that was the root of my predicament—my brother had decided the day before the wedding that he was going to go chat up some muggle girls with his fellow Prophet writers instead. Nice knowing how much you mean to your brother.

As a not very good apology, Martin told me he knew someone who might—only might—be able to come, and who was of the "male persuasion".

The "male persuasion". What in Merlin does that even mean? For all I knew, he might have set me up with some sort of masculine, scary witch. That would have been a fun date, wouldn't it?

And this I was left wondering up on the altar—Frank's eyes boring evil little holes into my head. (Either that or he was staring lovingly into Alice's eyes. It's a close call). Because, my brother's manly woman friend was also late.

Great.

Now, I have to be honest (I always said I'd take this to my grave, but I guess I am, so I figure I can tell you), I completely zoned out for most of the wedding. Please don't tell Frank. He'll kill me once again. I know I should have been paying attention to the little wizard with the funny hair, and the mushy faces Alice and Frank were making at each other…but I didn't.

Instead, I was staring intently at the little ring-bearer, wondering how in hell he got to have so much red hair. It was like he had a massive laceration on his head that would not stop bleeding. I just wanted to tackle him and floo him over to St. Mungo's. I don't think he could have been more than three—how did he have that much hair? I had less hair than him when I was that age and I was a girl. Maybe he was a girl though—Alice called him Percy…ambiguous name? Maybe?

Anyway, this little boy kept tugging on his luscious hair. (Yes, I'm envious of a three year old—still am actually. I want that hair). But that made me look more intently at the boy; he looked so embarrassed—fidgeting around, reaching for his mother, looking with big eyes at Alice and Frank. The mother, while juggling evil looking twins with even more red hair) later apologized to Alice (she obviously didn't know the newlyweds enough to know that Frank was the one who'd care), explaining that Percy felt that he didn't fit in up there. Strange. I thought he made the wedding. He was just too adorable—I couldn't help staring, the awful friend I was. But it's okay—I think everyone else was staring. (At least Lily). I just wish he knew that he was a complete showstopper.

I, however, was standing there, significantly less important, fighting and losing the battle against Lily and her gorgeousness. Her auburn hair and fair skin popped against the black dress, while my brown hair (not even a rich dark brown—no, my hair had to be excrement brown) and normal skin just looked drab, as always. Lily could wear a diaper and still look sexy, while I don't think I've ever really looked sexy. I mean, the only reason that more guys ended up trying to hit on me rather than Lily, apart from the fact that they were all drunk and balding, was because Lily had a hot, young, menacing looking boyfriend to ward off the unwanted suitors. Not to mention Lily could probably kill all of them using only her pinky finger. Or something like that. Maybe her crazy smarts. Lily was just…

Lily was just the best friend you loved to hate. She was the girl who was so perfect and so nice that you couldn't help but be her friend, but was so perfect and so nice that you couldn't help but resent every ounce of her. She was the one with the perfect grades, the perfect looks (natural redheads are never ugly), and the perfect Hogwarts sweetheart boyfriend. She was the one out making a difference in the world, making you feel extremely guilty for spending a whole day sitting behind a desk at the Department of Transportation, sneaking Cauldron Cakes when your boss isn't looking—which really is rather stupid because you would totally be out there kicking Death Eater arse, but you can't as you didn't even qualify for the preliminary round of Auror training.

It was a sad and inconvenient truth. Both Lily and Frank (not to mention their significant others) were ten times the person I was. I still am lost as to how I ever managed to be their friend, when I never had that same innate talent at life in general. I can doodle pretty well, and pack down a bushel of cauldron cakes like nobody's business, but it's not exactly the same thing here.

And Cornelius' timing had to make me feel a hundred times worse than my friends. Of course I'm the one who's stuck with the twit…

Because right as the officiate was saying that line about people with objections and speaking now or forever holding your peace (except in the wizard style, which tended to skip over it much more quickly and fairly indirectly due to a history of pureblood mothers wanting to make sure that the muggleborn/half-blood tramps their children were actually in love with didn't interfere with the arranged marriage), the doors banged open, accompanied by a loud echo and not one but two panicked ushers.

Remember how pureblood mothers made sure this part was short? Well, the doors opened not a half-second after "We're assuming everyone is ecstatic about this marriage" had been pronounced. If it hadn't been (indirectly) my fault, the ironic timing would have cracked me up (as it seemed to do to Sirius Black, who wouldn't shut up about it later).

But I was blamed.

And I have never seen Augusta Longbottom look more outraged in her life. Honestly, if she didn't like the pure-as-a-chastity-belt blooded Alice Fletchley, I can't imagine what her reaction to a muggleborn for a daughter-in-law would be. I'd imagine she'd prefer the Giant Squid.

Frank had also caught on to the evil stares his mother was giving him, and I could see his mind reeling, going through the list of people he'd invited and comparing it to the list of people actually there.

And only one person had not arrived yet.

Yes. My date. The one I had formerly worried of being a witch with a tad too much testosterone.

Quite frankly, as soon as (and maybe even a bit before) Frank turned his beady, perfectionist eyes on me, I knew I was better off with the witch. I never should have trusted Martin.

Obviously oblivious to all around him, the recent addition to this oh-so-charming wedding sat down, with a wink, next to Alice's cousin (a Hogwarts dropout who, at the time, was modeling for Playwizard magazine, until it turned out she was in an affair with the junior chair of the Wizengamot _and_ the head of the Department of Sports and Events—a department full of total pricks, by the way, who think they are superior to the so-called "poor, unfortunate souls" in the Department of Transportation. Arses, the lot of them—and was promptly fired. And Frank wonders why his mother doesn't trust Alice). Merlin, I couldn't believe that my brother set me up with some man-whore who has such horrendous choice in women as to stoop so low as to flirt with Desdemona Fletchley. He should really off himself before it's too late.

Finally, because the offender ignored the dumbfounded gazes everyone else was sending his way in favor of the torture known as Desdemona's giggling, attentions were averted back to the ceremony, and without further interruption, Frank and Alice were married.

Do you know that feeling when you should be paying attention to something, but you don't? Because there's something that just distracts you?

When I was nine, my parents took my siblings and I to see the ancient dwellings of magis in India—which I had been begging to do for years. But I got there, and all I could think of was that Marcy got a stuffed elephant and I didn't. Also, I was rather sleepy the whole time the tour guide stopped to explain how magis lived. (They lived pretty shittily).

Or that time in fifth year when I probably should have been focusing on my arithmancy OWL, but instead stared at Jervis Cauldwell's beautiful face. (However, I may or may not have been on my period, so it's not like I would have focused much anyway. And Jervis Cauldwell is gorgeous—I still see him on the cover of Witch Weekly from time to time). Who knew that the Arithmancy OWL would determine my career? Who knew a Dreadful on it would drop me into a position as deputy head of Identified Flying Objects (IFOs) at the Department of Transportation? Not even the big-ticket transport, like flooing or apparating? No, even though those don't require in depth knowledge of Arithmancy. (Can't think of anything that does).

I might have even been head of the stupid IFOs, had I not been so preoccupied with the broken seam on my robes during my interview. I wouldn't have had to deal with Goneril Jones on a daily basis.

And don't even get me started on my almost life with James Potter—if only I had shut up about my stupid feet. Let them be amputated.

Anyway, my point is, this is one of those times; I should have paid attention to Frank and Alice's ceremony—something I can't relive (do you know how expensive pensives are?) and that I should have been watching like a good friend. Lily was most definitely watching. But while the pair kissed and walked to their well-wishers and the scenery changed to the reception, I just stayed in place, my mind fixating on that awful sight of my mystery date with _Desdemona Fletchley_.

I mean, I don't even remember Alice and Frank kissing—despite the fact that they were all of three feet away from me. All I can see when I try and picture that moment is that idiot hitting on Desdemona Fletchley. There are many better (and natural) blondes out there, along with tons of brunettes whose laughs aren't so grating to one's ears. Like me. Not that I would ever condescend to date a man (more boy, actually) who would condescend to date _Desdemona Fletchley_. Also, his multitudes of cheesy pick-up lines suck. (Yeah…your basilisk is staying _far_ away from my chamber of secrets.)

But, was I that ugly? That he dropped me for some…for _Desdemona Fletchley?_ Just as there are no words to describe her (apart from easy slut that is), I have no words to describe that feeling. I was stricken—no sure reason, but I was.

No matter how stricken I was, as I soon realized due to the strange looks Frank's faceless groomsmen (imported from distant relations I've never met and I'm guessing he's never met either), I couldn't just stand up at the altar after the wedding ended, gawking at the blatant displays of horniness on the part of my date and Desdemona Fletchley. As I descended the stairs to the waiters, who had materialized out of nowhere with copious amounts of Firewhiskey (the only thing Frank did right with this wedding), I resolved two things: first, to never try anything with my date (ew…the slime), and second, to go talk to him immediately.

I did still need to bring somebody to fill that extra chair at the wedding party's table if I didn't want to be lynched. And if worst came to worst, I doubt Frank would mind eating next to a dead body if it brought us up to an even number (and didn't clash with the décor).

I sighed in resignation as I began to stalk towards my date. "Let's see how much of an arsehole he is…" I muttered under my breath.

"What was that?"

Startled, I looked up, to see my date in my face, looming over me by at least half a foot, with _Desdemona Fletchley_ practically drooping off his arm. He was not as prim and polished as I had originally thought from my place beside Lily and Alice; his wavy blond hair turned out to be scraggly with mousy undertones, the five o'clock shadow on his face looked less rugged than a poor attempt to color in his skin with a magic marker, and I was fairly sure his eyes were mismatched colors. Dear Desdemona only picks the best.

But what surprised me most was his voice. I had pictured him hitting on Desdemona in a Gilderoy Lockhart-esque voice—high and arrogant. (I had the misfortune of meeting Lockhart during one of his charity events. Only Gilderoy Lockhart would think that The Department of Transportation needed charity—I swear, no one knows we're in the Ministry). Instead, his voice was low and deep—I was tempted to ask him to repeat himself, until I realized that would require acknowledging his inevitably slimy existence.

"Nothing," I hurriedly replied, before deciding I might as well chat up one of the Prewetts instead of wasting my time trying to break up Fletchley and….whatever my date's name was.

"Oh," Desdemona Fletchley said in that insipid little voice of hers. "I could have sworn you said he was an arsehole."

The thing about Desdemona Fletchley is that, while most other people would have said that sentence intentionally, in order to make me look bad (which isn't really hard), Desdemona was actually confused. It was surprising how naïve she was—I'd say bordering on stupid, but she crossed that border ages ago. Well. Not that surprising. But I still had to jerk an overflowing glass of Ogden's finest off the nearest waiter—or else I would never be able to pacify Frank. God forbid this require _flirting_.

"Whatever he is, I know one thing for sure," I replied in my peppiest voice to Desdemona.

My peppy voice must not have done a good job, because as soon as I said this, his eyebrows shot up right to his hairline.

"Ooh! _What?_" Desdemona asked eagerly.

"I"—

"No, wait! I need to guess it for myself! I love these games! Teddy says I'm so good at them!"

My eyebrows joined my date's in the northern regions of our foreheads. Theodorius Cromwell IV, or Teddy apparently, was the junior chair of the Wizengamot.

"Oh, he's your estranged brother? Or you just had his baby? Or"—her voice lowered several decibels as she leaned in confidentially—"you're in love with him?"

I snorted. "As if."

Desdemona shrugged, her perfect curls bouncing off her perfect shoulders, as she lifted her glass towards me. "You never know."

"I should think I know these things," I smiled tersely, turning the man (boy) beside her. "You're needed at the main table."

"Did the bride finally realize she's in love with me? They realize they can't live without my entertainment?" he grinned roguishly. (Not that roguishly. It was more _safe _roguish. Kind of. Not like the Marauders. Not sexy _at all_. Maybe.)

"More like they don't know who you are but they need my date to even out the numbers," I said, steering him away from Desdemona and towards the impatient Frank. I decided to scour my arm with acid later.

"So _you're_ Marlene. Nice to meet you. Sorry I couldn't say hello earlier—I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, seeing as I didn't know what you look like."

"Too bad we couldn't keep it that way."

My date chuckled. Chuckled. But not just the ordinary, expected chuckle of a slimy ladies man (not that I would call Desdemona Fletchley a lady), or a chuckle that clearly translates as "Oh, you silly girl. I will poorly placate you and your sad attempt at humor for now because I am seeking to get into your pants later." (Yes, you can read that much into a chuckle—I've heard it used enough times on Lily. DON'T LISTEN TO FRANK). Instead, this was a genuine chuckle. I could tell because—in a moment of weakness—I looked back at the five o'clock shadowed man following me to the main table, and all I could see were his eyes. I said earlier that I heard that fake chuckle used on Lily before. Well, I've had to sit through many men hitting on my best friend, and you learn a lot about reading signals—if someone's lying, if someone likes a person, if someone has a mother addicted to doxy powder and is only talking to you in order to fool the wizarding mafia into thinking they're not stealing doxy powder from the mafia for their mother (yeah…that was not a particularly fun night), and if a person is genuinely smiling/amused/not just trying to placate you to get into your pants.

And my date was just that. (Genuinely smiling/amused/not just trying to placate me to get into my pants).

I could tell because of his eyes. They light up with glee, in a way no pimp could fake, and the corners of his eyes crinkled quite charmingly. That was when I noticed that, even though he could not have been more than a year or two older than my twenty-two year old self, he already had lines marking the corners of his eyes. One of my earliest memories was one of my mother telling my older brother that she knew Dumbledore was a good person because the lines in the corners of Dumbledore's eyes were his most prominent wrinkles, which meant he must have smiled a lot in his life.

At that point, I forgot about Desdemona Fletchley, and smiled back at him, showing quite a few teeth. I'm pretty sure that caught him by surprise, after all that hostility, as he suddenly stopped (right while we were walking through the middle of the room), and his crinkled eyes widened at me.

They were in fact two different colors, I realized. One hazel, the other green.

I raised an eyebrow at my date, ushering him to continue forward, which he did (though he did not resume his partially witty banter).

"So, do you have a name, or do they just call you Two-eyes?"

"Ah…yeah. My name," he stuttered, coming out of his reverie.

I raised an eyebrow. "You do have one of those, right? I don't really have a hankering to refer to you as Man-Whore for the rest of the evening."

He managed to choke out a chuckle. "You really don't like me, do you?"

Well. I supposed we'd have to have this conversation sometime. But I wasn't having it in the middle of the room. Frank would _kill_ me. So I did the only logical thing for a person in my situation.

I pulled him into the nearest broom closest. (I know, I'm surprised there was one there too—but even wedding venues need to sweep up sometime, apparently).

"Maybe I was wrong," he sputtered incredulously. And after a second for recovery, he attacked me.

Like, launched himself on top of me. Looked like only one of us was getting out of this broom closet alive. As his arms wiggled around me, my hand fumbled around desperately in order to find some way to get out of his imminent death grip.

Finally, after moments of desperation, in which my life flashed vividly before my eyes (don't hold your breath—it sucked), my fingers closed around a broom (took a surprisingly long time to find one of those in a _broom_ closet). I raised it against him as I felt something slick against my face. The broom came down on his head as I realized.

"_Shit_, was that your _tongue?_" I practially shrieked at the man (more boy) before me.

Who, of course, was not even listening, as he was more focused on the head clasped in his hands. I promptly smacked those out of the way, glaring at him as his pathetic face looked up to greet mine, to give me the apology I deserved.

"_Ow_, what in Merlin's hairy balls was _that_ for?" he cried, hands returning to clutch his head. "And yeah, tongues are usually involved when one makes out!"

I blinked at him. (Not that he could see in the dim light of the broom closet. I knew I should have chosen the girls bathroom—not only better light, but he would have been right at home there).

"You realize, Man-Whore, or whatever your name is, that I didn't want to make out. Not everyone is _Desdemona Fletchley_. Most of us are impervious to your…_charms_."

"You pulled me into a broom closet. What was I supposed to expect that meant? That you wanted to discuss politics?"

"Excuse me, but you said yourself that I hated you. How did you go from that to assuming that I wanted to grope you?"

Maybe it was because he was a pseudo-redhead, and therefore probably more susceptible to blushing, but, despite the poor lighting situation, I was sure he was turning pink. "I just…" he started to mumble, "girls are always having mood swings and stuff. I just thought it was…you know…that…please don't make me say it…_time?_"

And, wouldn't you smack him for that?

So I did. Twice.

After the customary recuperation period had passed, I pulled him up towards the door.

"Don't you still want to know my name?" he asked softly.

Focusing on straightening my dress and fixing my hair instead of looking at him, I replied, "I think Man-Whore will do for the night."

We managed to get to the head table without incident, slipping in besides Lily just in time to pacify Frank. Or at least, that was what I had planned on doing. However, some people just don't know how to cooperate.

"Marlene," the insolent man to my side whispered when we were not three yards from our designated seats, in a bit of an urgent tone. (Hm. I doubt it's really urgent. Lily's wannabe boyfriends always tried to pull that sincere apology—except, they weren't so sincere in the end). "Please… look. I'm sorry. Just listen, will you?"

I rolled my eyes at him, looking his way for what would hopefully be the last time that night. "If I had a knut, for every time I heard that one."

And so, alright, maybe every time I've heard it, it was being used on Lily. But he didn't have to know that.

"What does that mean?"

Of course. Martin sets me up with the idiot.

"It means that you're stupid and I hate you. And you're ugly."

Well. That's what I wanted to say, anyway. I was thinking it pretty hard. If he had any telekinetic powers, he'd understand.

Instead, I went for, "It means that I hear that stupid apology a lot, because I'd be rich if I had a knut every time I heard it."

I added in an extra eye roll.

"I've never heard that before."

"Lily says it sometimes, okay?" I sighed frustratedly, dropping my forehead in my hand to avoid looking the idiot in the eye.

He chuckled once again. That chuckle was getting on my nerves. Did he always get amused at others' pain? The sad thing though, that his chuckle wasn't even in time with Desdemona Fletchley's giggles—the beats were completely incompatible (which was rather surprising as one would think the simpering buffoons would be completely compatible).

I rubbed my eyes. Honestly, I was analyzing the syncopation of their laughs.

But I simply had to admit that even my laugh would match his better—even though I was indubitably going to end up an old maid at the rate my friends were pairing off.

"Let's go," I growled at my unwelcome companion, before proceeding to haul him up to fill up the empty seats. Frank had, for once, had a stroke of genius, deciding to segregate the table by sex, leaving him and his blushing bride (who was blushing far less than Frank himself) as the only male and female next to each other. Therefore, I only had to avoid the unfortunate sight of my date on the opposite end of the table. It was practically paradise.

Lily looked up at me as I sat down between her and Frank's relation's date (who kept talking about loo roll quality to anyone who would listen—not that anyone was listening). "Finally," she muttered. "Thought I was going to be stuck alone for the rest of the night. Honestly, it's no fun sitting next to the newlyweds. Where were you?"

I shrugged, restraining myself from glancing the answer to that question. Not that I would have any time

"Well, anyway," Lily hurried on, her eyes shining in a way that was either excited or batshit angry. (I was rooting for the former). "I've been wanting to tell you this forever"—here she paused for suspense, as anyone in her situation would do—"James proposed to me this morning."

Fuck. I was going to be an old maid. I had better invest in some cats.


	3. Chapter 2

Hey guys! Just wanted to thank ZozoLovesBooks and Eleos for reviewing! It means a lot. I'm trying something different from what I've written before, so your feedback means a lot! Thanks!

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><p>Heels clacked imperiously against the cold tile floor of the Ministry of Magic. With a smirk on my face, I marched down the empty corridor, clad in sleek gray robes and three and a half inch pumps. I let the feeling of authority wash over me—there was nothing like walking on top of the world. And that was just what I was doing.<p>

Until Madam Edgecombe opened her office door.

"_Fucking Merlin!_" I hissed, so startled by the sudden noise that I stumbled to the sides, dragging a heeled foot along the ground quite painfully.

"What was that?" the Floo Chair asked innocently.

"Nothing!" I insisted quickly, pulling myself back up, and walking forward—though this time without the confidently swaying hips or smirk. And without the sound of my heels (which were now in my hands to prevent further injury to my foot). That act was over.

It was a pity. I had always loved the sound of heels on the ground. It just exuded power and poise. (While padding around the freezing Ministry hallways with bare feet was much more "scared-shitless intern"). I had waited years to wear heels—at Hogwarts there was really no need for heels, unless you were invited to Slug Club parties, which I wasn't. I yearned for the chance to parade in those stilettos featured in Witch Weekly.

But despite my mastery of walking in heels, accidents happened, and I was forced to traipse around the back hallways of the Ministry—where the Department of Transportation was stashed.

Have I mentioned I work in the Department of Transportation? Well, needless to say, it's not exactly the most glamorous department. It's not Law Enforcement, where, if you're not an auror running around chasing bad guys, you're at least on the Wizengamot making important decisions. And it's not Sports—dear Merlin no. We don't get free tickets to _anywhere_ here. Instead, we get to test the apparating prowess of whiny seventeen year olds (usually near nonexistent).

And within the Department of Transportation—already shunted as far away as possible—I get the smallest and most inconvenient corner, because I am almost the only person in the whole department who doesn't work in one of the three main committees (Apparation, Floo, and Portkeys). Dear old IFOs (Identified Flying Objects) is the overlooked committee that I work in.

"Mckinnon, shoes go on your feet, not your hands."

And that's why I'm _almost_ the only person not in the other committees.

I scowled at Goneril Jones as I crossed the threshold of our office to my desk. "Oh, you're so funny, Jones."

"You're late. I should report you," Goneril glared back.

"By twelve minutes. Who cares? Just go back to your precious forms."

I collapsed into my seat, throwing my heels under my desk and leaning my head against the cool surface of my desk.

"Are you _drunk_, Mckinnon?" Goneril frowned, her dark eyes narrowing.

I could have easily responded, picking yet another fight with my dear superior, but explaining the difference between being drunk and hung-over was not worth it when my head hurt this much.

"I went to a wedding yesterday," I said simply, ending the conversation by going to check my perpetually empty mailbox.

Goneril Jones was the IFO Chair. She was also the type of person who thought this was extremely significant—even though there were all of two people in the dear ol' IFOs. All it really meant was that she got first choice on assignments. So, she got all the glamorous work with brooms, while I got everything else. (You'd be surprised what people make fly). I even had to deal with the Knight bus sometimes—because while it (at least I think) lacks the ability to fly, the Department of Transportation believes that everyone else has to deal with something much more important. Oh, and despite her iron-fisted regime over the broom files, I still had to be the one to deal with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, who think they have the supreme authority over everything broom related.

Yeah, right.

If I have one piece of advice for any new Ministry employees, it's to stay far away from anyone who says they're from the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

Also, use the stairs. Yes, the elevators are all _glamorous_, but they're pretty much only useful if you work in the Department of Law Enforcement. Or Magical Games and Sports. Or the Minister's office. One of the big-ticket places. So, despite the many stairs in the Ministry to get to my little hovel of an office, it's shorter than waiting for all the important people to be shuttled around first.

(And it's no fun having no clue who the people Alice and Frank hob-knob with on the elevator are).

But, if it somehow has not gotten through your brain that the Department of Transportation is the lowest of the low, let me spell it out for you. The Department of Transportation is the lowest of the low. And I am the very bottom of the food chain.

(Even below some of the maintenance staff—it's true).

After finally lifting my head from my desk (but only after my body heat made it warm and therefore less comforting to my raging head), I turned to the best medicine. Grasping for the second to bottom drawer on the right-hand side of my desk, it was soon in my hand. The best creation of all time.

The cauldron cake.

Qizilbash Quality Confectionary should get an award for service to humanity—I shudder when I imagine my life without those delicious pastries. The wrapper crinkled softly, changing from fuchsia to sea green, as I delicately unwrapped it. (Of course, no matter how quietly I unwrap cauldron cakes, Goneril always seems to know—lucky for me she hasn't yet found a loophole in the Ministry handbook to keep me from eating).

"It's nine-thirty in the morning, for Merlin's sake," she muttered, throwing a look of disgust at me.

I shrugged and popped the chocolate delicacy into my mouth. Flavors swirled about—warm chocolate marbled with fudge, thick, melting caramel, and hints of hazelnut. Ecstasy. Choirs of angels sing just for me as roses bloom for my nostrils and my eyes close to the visions of caramels pools and handsome men.

Circe and above, I love wizard candy.

Lily always insists on her muggle candy—weirdly shaped bars with ugly wrappers and stale insides—despite my constant protests. Honestly. Cauldron cakes warm your extremities and cause your fingers to tingle. Those "Snickers" can't even make me smile, let alone laugh.

Goneril, being the miser she is, would never understand, but there's just something about Cauldron Cakes. The chocolate—just like any candy—but with the golden caramel surprise inside, and the way it—no matter what—makes you smile. It's the supporting friend who's always been there. Goneril would say I'm crazy. But it still gave me the patience to keep going. (And it's pretty good at making me forget about hangovers).

So, maybe I am a bit crazy. But I think I'd choose crazy over heinous bitch any day.

But, finally, I had to swallow the last remnants of the cauldron cake (the only bad part about cauldron cakes is that they never seem to last long enough), and I had to begin my day, lest Goneril start clawing my eyes out or reporting me to indifferent superiors.

Eying the large stack of complaints to be filed and papers to be signed, I turned to my pet project: my proposal on magic carpets. So, maybe it doesn't sound all that thrilling, but trust me, when you've done enough Ministry paperwork, writing your own paperwork is a tad better. And anyway, injustices occur to magic carpets every day.

Remember how I said I loved magis as a kid? Well in this passion, I fell in love with magic carpets, which were about the only cool thing they had back then. (Dirt huts aren't so fun.) Well, I have seen a lot of flying things in my day—something not many people can say—and I have never seen one as mistreated as magic carpets. At least in England, that is.

On my first day of work, only a few months after I graduated Hogwarts, I was accosted by a fairly hostile man (I'll never know who was stupid enough to pick him to persuade me) from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. That was the beginning of my rather negative relationship with that department. The man, Algernon Fawcett, approached me on the behalf of several local businessmen, who wanted to ban the sale of flying carpets. The businessmen, as dear Algernon explained several times, did not particularly like the popular rival of flying carpets, which could easily fit a family traveling together. Mr. Fawcett then proceeded to explain to me the importance of keeping British money in Britain.

It was a rather disgusting hour I spent with that man. There is a reason there is no department of economics, and that is because the Ministry has always been hands off. My proposal, once completed, would argue for more rights for magic carpet vendors and, like many other wizarding countries, to establish it as its own form of transportation on the level of floo powder and brooms.

Goneril said I was just doing this so I could become the chair of the Magic Carpet Committee. I said they would never give such a position to someone like me.

I pulled out my proposal once again, and started from the top, to begin with the long and careful editing process the proposal was constantly subjected to. That was when I remembered. Proposal. Lily and James.

I cannot say I had remembered much of the evening before—I had a larger than normal serving of champagne—until this moment. With a groan, I started to remember the activities of the night before.

Lily had announced her engagement to me, and suddenly, the entire main table was silent in shock—except for Alice and Frank, who were smiling knowingly. Of course Lily would tell them first.

Lily had beamed at me, almost blindingly, and sent the least subtle glances at James that I have ever seen. And they like to do the whole not-so-subtly staring thing a lot. (Merlin, we all just wanted to punch them in seventh year.) But, finally, Lily seemed to realize that I was still sitting there, mostly uninformed, so whisked me away to the bathroom. I'm not quite sure why we had to go to the bathroom to talk about it—it's not like she was detailing her sex life or something, but I was rather glad to get away from the date who kept talking about loo roll.

I did test the loo roll, though. It was quite nice. Very soft.

Not that this is important; it's not like I'm currently looking for any wedding venues. (And I suppose I shouldn't be choosing the venue based on its loo roll anyway…)

As soon as we entered the bathroom, Lily practically collapsed against the sink, with a dreamy look on her face I doubt she would ever allow James to see. Lily was not dreamy very often, let me say. Like the good little Head Girl she was, she did not believe in wasting time dreaming, if it could be spent, say, studying. "Dreaming," she would say, "is something for bed." Then she would berate me for lying around in bed so much.

I just really liked sleep. Is that so bad?

But, there Lily was, leaning against the sink, looking like what I imagine McGonagall would look like if the Marauders had all turned into obedient little automatons offering catnip. Either that, or she was high. (Never trust Sirius Black with your drink—something I had to learn the hard way in sixth year.)

"So, what happened?" I asked, winding the loo roll around my fingers.

Lily sighed once again. (This was getting rather strange for me—Lily Evans should never sigh). Then her story began.

Apparently, the night before, Alice had been on some "mission" (as Lily called it) for the thing that James and Lily work for. It must have slipped Lily's mind, but it was definitely news to me that Alice was part of their secretive work as well. I wondered if Frank was in it too. Maybe it was just a big party. A big laugh-at-Marlene-and-her-incompetence party.

I didn't tell Lily about her slip-up.

As Lily was saying, Alice was on some mission, and therefore was not supposed to get home until much later than Frank would like. So Frank had joined Lily for dinner, to calm his nerves or whatever. That was the first I had heard of that little party. Lily didn't seem to think twice about these fun times without me, so, as always, I said nothing. So, there Lily and Frank were, waiting for Alice—I can just see Frank sitting there anxiously, doing that thing where he pulls on his fingers. He never liked waiting—he was always exactly five minutes early for everything and whenever anyone else did not do the same he freaked out. (An unfortunate truth that Alice had to learn quickly in order to prevent Frank's invented drama.)

Sitting there, Lily, as she hastily described it to me, was slowly having a realization. Evidently whatever business she, James, and the rest of them are in is not exactly the safest thing.

"And, I guess, I was just freaking out. What if Alice doesn't make it back in time for her wedding? What then? You know Frank—his obsessive planning? This…thing we do, you can't exactly schedule it. It's not some easy nine-to-five gig. Oh. Sorry Marlene, you know I didn't mean it like that. But, it's tough to juggle a proper life with what we do. I barely see James anymore, let alone you and Frank. And then I was thinking, what if Alice died? It's hard to imagine, right? But there's not a doubt it could happen. And then what would Frank do? He and Alice…they're truly one person. They don't need marriage for that. God. What then? And I was just…I was thinking what would happen if James or I died. We're not like Alice and Frank—not close—but I can't see myself without him. And if we take it too far, there's definitely no going back."

(I couldn't exactly empathize. I work at the Department of Transportation.)

And it was in that state that Frank had left Lily. And it was in that state that James had found Lily.

She had been freaking out.

"And then…James was just so nice. Like always."

I suppressed the urge to remind her of fifth year. It would not have done to break up the newly engaged couple.

"He said we should go out to eat, on a proper date, because it had been so long. And then I promptly said there were no restaurants open so late. I was just so…so cranky about it. I mean, I started yelling at him because there were no restaurants open, and how it was such a terrible idea. Poor James.

"But then he said that maybe we should just make dinner ourselves. And I was still annoyed, so I said that we couldn't have dinner because I had already had dinner with Frank. And then he started to get pissed.

" 'Merlin, Lily,' he said. 'I'm just trying to make things work. Do you have to be so bitchy?' Needless to say, I was not very happy with that."

"Well, this sounds so romantic," I had drawled. Lily blushed.

"I know, I know. We fight way too much. Anyway, as I was saying, neither one of us was very happy with each other at that point. And I was still processing my big revelation over Alice and Frank's situation, you know? So, when he started accusing me of not trying in our relationship—which is totally untrue you know, and he apologized way too much for it later—I was ready to break it off.

"Of course, he did not take it very well when I yelled that maybe we'd be better off separate, as he took it as a proof that I didn't try enough. And then, after he brought that up, I called him needy and talked about how being together caused way too much stress along with our thing.

"Basically it ended up with me crying about how there was no point in staying together, as there was no chance it would turn out well, and him being frustrated that I was not very devoted to anything. He said that cowards don't get rewarded, and I'd have to take risks for some things."

Lily paused, her dreamy expression now sober, and pressed her hands to her face, looking for all the world like there was nothing she would not give to forget what was to come next.

"Remember when my mother died? It was only, what, a year out of Hogwarts? A year and a half? It wasn't You-Know-Who or anything like what could happen to us. Just a heart attack. But it felt like my world had ended. It was scary. She was my mother. She was supposed to be invincible.

"And that was my mother. James is…James, dying? Is that possible? But it could happen. I really don't want it to. But somehow, last night, the notion got into my head that maybe if we broke up, it wouldn't be as bad. It's stupid—that'd be awful, giving up James. But, for some reason, I thought it then. I must have been tired."

Lily pushed herself off the sink, and joined me against the toilet stall, picking a bit at the loo roll shreds I had been absentmindedly playing with.

"I'm rambling now. Sorry Marlene."

Just like always, I said nothing. I never had anything to say when Lily got like this—which wasn't often, but when James was involved, it could happen. Drama was never really my thing, and I couldn't exactly joke about it when Lily was like this. So I just shut up and let Lily run her course. She always was a fan of monologues.

"So," Lily finally picked up, ready to continue. "I didn't exactly tell James that. About the whole…dying thing. I think he just thought I was being my old fickle self from Hogwarts again. You know, the kind of bitchy one? Yeah. He wasn't too happy. Said I never give him a chance. And then I called him out on that. I mean, come on. I'm not the same person I was back then, and he shouldn't hold that against me.

"Then it was silent—neither of us really had much to say to each other. Finally he spoke up and said 'And to think I was going to propose to you tonight.' And I just broke down. He must have thought I was a basket case when I started coughing like mad."

Lily chuckled softly. "He was staring at me like I was insane—but he's James, so he got me a glass of water and sat next to me until I stopped. And then I told him how I had been fretting."

Lily buried her face in my loo roll with a large goofy smile. "God, I love James. He faced me and told me not to be stupid. He said he'd always be there for me—I know, it sounds so mushy, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to stand up. He said it's normal to worry, but we should never have to worry about staying together. That we're meant for each other. And that one day, we'll defeat You-Know-Who, and we'll only have to worry about James junior getting into trouble."

Lily giggled into my shoulder, but must have seen me thinking. Except, Lily didn't realize quite what I was thinking about—that Lily's whole secretive thing was against You-Know-Who—and so proceeded to frown at me and say, "Oh, shut up. It didn't sound as cheesy at the time. Don't judge me until you get your own boyfriend."

I stared at her. She knew I had never been kissed—even though I didn't like to talk about it to her as much as she liked to talk about James to me. "Ouch," I replied to her, putting on a mask of only partly feigned hurt.

Lily laughed and started out of the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "Maybe you can change things with your date. He was pretty cute."

I grimaced at her. "And an arse. Did you see him with Desdemona Fletchley?"

"No," Lily replied simply, like she is apt to do when not talking of James. "I saw him with you."

All I could have hoped for was that she was not going to add "in the broom closet".

"Coming out of the broom closet—so I guess I no longer have to pity you for not having your first kiss yet?"

And that was the beginning of my relationship with the bartender—Nick Appleby, I think his name was. (He had a nice wife and two kids at home, and enjoyed playing Beater in neighborhood games of Quidditch in his free time.)

As I walked out of that bathroom, I realized two things. First, that when Lily and James got married, I would be the odd one out who screws up the seating chart at all those married couple dinners, that is, if I was even invited. Second, that, while Lily had been giving me her sermon, they had gone ahead and served dessert.

You would think Frank would notice his two best friends weren't even there when they were serving the dessert—one of the things I had most been looking forward to that day (what with the awful dates and proposals that made me feel guilty).

But no. I walked out, and there was a mostly empty plate to my right. I barely know Caradoc Dearborn, but I was not happy with his not quite finished red velvet cake with cream cheese icing, that had me just dying in lust.

I needed a boyfriend.

I did not even have a chance to sneak off into the kitchens to find some way to salvage the remnants of dessert. Frank and Lily had begun their dance, and I was left trapped, Lily clinging tightly to my arm with a mushy expression on her face that the world would never have been graced with had Lily not gotten engaged eighteen hours before.

Alice did have a rather pretty dress. It billowed so gracefully when she twirled in Frank's arms. (When had he learned to dance?) I definitely wanted a billowy dress when I got married. Maybe with some lace too. My mother got married in lace. I could always alter her dress—she was thinner than me, but I was taller—and carry sunflowers like she did. Mum always said that sunflowers were the best flowers; no matter what life was like, they kept their heads held high to the sun. (That was always when I said the sunflowers were just pathetically infatuated. Then she would frown reprovingly at me.) Mum was an optimist.

But I was getting ahead of myself. Before I could plan my own wedding, or even Lily's, I had to somehow survive this one. Which was a very hard task, as Nick Appleby heard repeatedly that evening. There are several key factors in surviving a wedding, as I noticed. First, one must be on time, properly dressed, and not drunk. Second, one must enjoy the company of the people getting married and their friends. Thirdly, one must have a pleasant date, and if one doesn't like their date, one must do a good job of avoiding them in a subtle manner.

I, though on time (barely) and dressed for the occasion (tolerably) and not drunk (initially) and even still in the good graces of my friends, failed miserably at the third criterion. Especially in the avoiding part.

After Lily had been whisked away by James for a disgustingly dreamy dance (thereby saving my arm from amputation), I was able to trudge off to the open bar, where I met the aforementioned Nick Appleby.

I cannot, in all honesty, deny that I was at the bar for the remainder of the night. That said, the rest of that night was a blur for me. But, I was probably at the bar the majority of that reception. There isn't really any other reason to explain the brutal sensation my head was victim to the next morning as I focused (or at least tried to) on magic carpets.

But eventually, the little common sense I possessed convinced me that it was no use trying to write crap that I would end up scratching out later. So, I turned from my flying carpets to the substantially less fun paperwork waiting for me.

Paperwork is not fun. Even Frank—who revels in procedure and regulations—did not like paperwork. But, the thing is, Frank is an auror. His day consists of going out and rounding up bad guys and condemning them in front of the Wizengamot. Only occasionally must he fill out a simple form recording how bad the guys were when his paperwork lackeys are not there. My job was like his, except minus the glamorous part and multiplying the paperwork by eternity.

Basically, my days were really boring between nine to five. (Not even lunch provided a respite—somehow, listening to Goneril's lectures while massive stacks of paper stare you in the face is not very exciting, no matter what Frank made you for lunch.)

As no one truly cares about my ordeals in classifying various exploitations of flying charms, I shall just skip to four forty-seven, when a grey barn owl burst into my office and perched itself on my head.

In doing that, the owl managed to upset at least two precarious stacks of paper and shed quite a few feathers over the sentence I had just written, smearing the wet ink all over the page. You would think that the Ministry of _Magic_ would have found some better, more efficient way to send messages. Especially since Frank works for them. Then again, maybe the owls are better behaved for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But, anyway, I took the letter from the owl, in the hopes that it would stop squeezing my head with its foot—someone needed to file those talons.

I glared at the owl as I took the envelope (which is quite hard to do when the owl is presently on top of your head), and the owl finally took the message and flew off. After he pooped on my, that is.

Merlin, I am not an animal person.

Vanishing the poop, I narrowed my eyes at the owl while it flew out of the room with a squawk. I would say it narrowed its eyes at me in return, but it might have just been a really ugly bird. Also I'm pretty sure that it was soulless. Like Goneril. Goneril Junior. Goner-owl. Their soulless screeches even sounded the same.

Stupid birds.

I turned to the letter, which had Alice's handwriting. Seeing her handwriting was just a bit worrisome; writing to me was stupid, as I lived with them, and if Frank ever saw reason to write to me, he was the one to do it, because Alice was generally indifferent to the trivial matters Frank found important. Emergency scenes started playing over in my head: Frank dying of food poisoning, their hotel room collapsing in on them, Death Eaters attacking and leaving them bleeding to death.

Then I realized Alice could not have written the letter if she was dead (or she wouldn't have written _me_) and that the writing on the envelope did not appear to be hurried or bloody. Frank had probably just had some sort of panic attack after the pair left the reception because he no longer had any one to order around, and Alice was just writing to laugh about him with me because she had finally realized how weird he is.

High expectations ruin everything.

_Dear Marlene_, read Alice's loopy cursive.

_I must say, it's very strange not having you with us! I'm quite used to waking up to the smell of Cauldron Cakes. But I suppose I must start getting used to it. I just hope you're able to find another apartment soon—I know you don't like living with your parents._

_I want to thank you for your help. Of course at the wedding—you were a great bridesmaid—but mostly for what you did two years ago. I know we've never been the closest friends, but what you did meant a lot to me. _

_Finally, Frank and I would really appreciate it if you would collect our assignments. Unfortunately, Moody was not too pleased with our decision to take time off for a honeymoon; he's always been a bit of a downer. But if you could get our work from him, we would be very grateful. Just leave it on our desk. Thanks so much!_

_Alice Longbottom_

I stared at the parchment with the demented hope that the words would soon rearrange themselves. Why couldn't they ever ask me for a nice, simple favor? "Marlene, would you mind ever so much testing out this mattress for me?" or "Oh, Marlene, would you be a dear and finish off these Cauldron Cakes for me?"

It wasn't that going to the aurors' offices was particularly hard, but it kind of was. There weren't any obstacles—defeat three Death Eaters and jump over this five foot high pole—one had to accomplish before proving they were worthy of entering. I just wish there were. When I go into the Department of Law Enforcement, people look at me. I'm sure I'd do the same if someone I didn't know walked into my office; we're all voyeurs at heart. But there's something that makes my skin crawl in the stares of an auror. (Not that the oh-so-mighty aurors have time to stare, but whatever.) The stare (or glance) of an auror manages to pack a lifetime of judgement in a second of averted eye contact. Aurors smell fear—it's their job—and if someone does not belong there, they know. They might as well have that obstacle course; then they'd know that everyone there had to have at least some talent worthy of their time.

It was never so bad when Frank and Alice were there—I would hurry by the first few offices (if you look busy, they never seem to pay you as much attention; I think they just assume you're a messenger or lackey of some sort) until I found Alice and Frank. Once I was with them, my stay with the aurors had some sort of legitimacy. Without them, I felt like a first year sitting in on a prefect meeting. Not that I know all that much about prefect meetings.

With a resigned sigh, I put the letter to the side. I grabbed my previously discarded outer robe, shoved my heels back on my feet—traipsing around aurors barefoot wouldn't do, would it?—and went to face my judgement.

This was about the only situation in which I could find myself needing those magical elevators. After a relatively short trek, I found myself in front of the infamous elevator doors. And this is the beginning of my woes.

Elevators are not very complicated machines—if you're a muggle. Magical elevators are different. Almost like wands, magical elevators chose the wizard. Very capricious, they are. Many people (Frank, Lily, Alice, the Minister of Magic, etc.) would disagree with me on this fact. But they have never had to wait ten minutes for an elevator to take them anywhere. Magical elevators like important people, which I have never been nor will ever be. (Unless someone became insane and awarded me posthumously.)

Ten minutes later, I was boarding an elevator with a less-than-pleased member of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. (It was a peppy looking blonde witch—Sports and Games was full of those—complete with pearls and a dragon-skin bag.) For a second there, I felt like the elevator was on my side—displeasing the Sports and Games princess by upsetting her _busy_ schedule (all those games and hot Quidditch players) by toting her all the way down to Transportation. Bummer. No more flirting with hot Quidditch guys.

But then I came to my senses as the elevator doors closed on my robes. My nice _new_ gray sleek robes that Lily had helped me pick out in her few moments spared on me. Ha. I always knew those elevators had it out for me—and it brought along the blonde bitch as audience. And I mean bitch. Apparently missing out on schmoozing with Cosmo Jenkins after the Magpies victory did not sit well with this lady.

Though, to be fair, Cosmo Jenkins has beautiful biceps. Desdemona Fletchley could probably testify.

Anyway. The elevator doors closed to form a nice-new-sleek-gray-Lily-does-actually-care-about-me robes sandwich. I think we would all agree _fuck _is a rather appropriate choice of words for this situation, and so, like any normal person, I used it quite loudly and several times, attempting to side my robe carefully from between the doors as the elevator rattled through the hub of the Ministry. Then, Miss Pearls deigned to speak to me.

"You are a witch, aren't you?"

I glanced up at her perfectly colored face (among perfectly bouncing curls). "Yes," I grunted, and reached for my wand pocket. As reluctant as I was to admit it, she had a point. After I reached for my wand, however, I began to wonder if her motives were more conniving than I pegged them for (she didn't look smart enough to be conniving—and not just because she was blonde). See, reaching across your body for a lower pocket requires a certain amount of slack around your shoulder that nice-new-sleek-gray-Lily-does-actually-care-about-me robes cannot provide when they are trapped in between the elevator doors.

And thus, my robes ripped. Ripped all the way down the right side of my torso. Thank Merlin I had had the foresight to put on a clean bra.

To make matters worse, the sudden release of my robes as they ripped allowed my wand to sail out of its aforementioned pocket, all the way to the opposite end of the elevator. Magical elevators (at least in the Ministry) tend to be quite large; they have to accommodate more than quite a few very important people and their very important and very grandiose waistlines.

Miss Pearls (standing all the way on the opposite end of the elevator) did nothing.

I was still stuck to the elevator doors, via the shreds of robes still left intact.

After a brief, meditative (but ineffective) pause, I began to reach for my wand. Merlin, it was far away, but it wasn't like Miss Pearls was being any help at the moment. I shimmied around in my robes, so I could lean down to the ground and stretch for my wand. It was at this moment—more so than others—that I very acutely felt the difference between Lily's height and mine. Only three inches, but in situations like these, three inches made a lifetime of a difference.

Merlin, forbid I actually had to _ask_ Miss Pearls to help me.

Eventually I realized wishing for three inches more was never going to help, and so went for my back-up plan. The elevator was already rattling—clearly it did not think Miss Pearls and I were worth the trouble of staying steady—and if I were to make it rattle just the right amount, my wand might come rolling back to me.

I started out slow: subtly shifting my stance from my left foot to my right. But eventually, I was in full rocking mode, giving Miss Pearls another reason to look at me like I had just transformed into Stubby Boardman. Finally, my wand started to move, rolling in that stupid curved path that pointed objects have always insisted on. (It was quite infuriating—why can't anything ever be simple?). I began to crouch down (continuing to sway back and forth—rather like I had inhaled a tad too much doxy powder) to reach my wand. I just grabbed the very tip of my wand when the doors opened.

Muggles like explaining things. Lily says many people devote their lives to the science (as she called it) of how the world works. Once or twice Lily herself has lectured me on psychics or something—she always rolls her eyes at me when I respond that I already know about those, and my great-great aunt was supposed to be one. But you don't need muggle science to know that when an object has been pulling on you and suddenly lets go, you're going to fall.

From there, it's pretty easy to assume that when you fall, some auror behind you will catch you (they're kind of into the whole saving people thing up on this floor), and pull you back. Once they pull you back, your arm will fall back rather like an overdramatic waltz (except without any of the grace) and the wand loosely grasped between your thumb and forefinger will fly back as well, over the many bobbing auror heads. And then you will be forced to trek after that wand, clutching the side of your previously torn robes, ignoring the people around you as hang your head in even more embarrassment than normal.

It's really all quite logical, you see. And I bet that the muggles never invented a science for that. I should create it—I'll call it crappy-luck-ology. There'll be a whole theorem and everything about the ratio of the size of the gashing whole in your robes (and your heart) to the involvement of Miss Pearls.

But, anyway, I think it was very clear what would happen to me as soon as those doors opened.

And so there I was, holding my arm stiff to my right side, firmly clutching the end of the rip, trying to seem like a normal person. My one bit of luck was that everyone seemed to be in a fuss over some dude named Rookwood, and did not seem to notice me as they scurried about in a tizzy. But I wasn't an auror or anything, so it went right over my head.

My wand's trajectory from my not-so-majestic fall sent it (from what I could tell) all the way back to the end of the main corridor. There were a lot of aurors—walking into their offices always felt like entering a beehive—which meant a long walk. It almost felt as long as the daily hike to my office. The only difference was that this time I was in a much more congested part of the Ministry and I was in a state of undress. It was like a very bad dream.

At the very end of the corridor—after the buzz of busy auror-bees had slowed to a stop for more than a few offices—the corridor took a sharp turn, becoming a much smaller hall. That hall, which only lasted a yard or two, ended with a solitary desk, which possessed two things of importance.

My wand and a man with copper hair and two different colored eyes.

"You."


	4. Chapter 3

Sorry for the wait; I've been busy with exams and graduating and whatnot. But, I don't know how often I'll be able to update or even when the next update will be, as I don't even know what my schedule will be like yet.

Thanks to _**ZozoLovesBooks**_,_**luisemau**, **Little Emily**_, and _**Abandoned Account1111111111111**_ (is that actually your penname, or have I just embarassed myself? Or both?) for reviewing!

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><p>Previously on Cauldron Cakes:<p>

Frank and Alice got married and left for their honeymoon. Marlene was saddled with a mystery date to the wedding, whom she avoided most of the evening and never bothered to learn the name of, after he mistakenly tried to snog her in a broom closet.

While at work, Marlene got an owl from Alice requesting she get some of Alice and Frank's work to bring home for them. In the elevator, Marlene's robes ripped, and she accidentally threw her wand down the hall of the auror office. At the end of said hall, she found none other than the mystery date from the wedding.

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><p><em>Chapter 3<em>

With Alice and Frank gone, entering the apartment was like venturing into a whole new world—a world that I didn't belong to. I barely noticed it on Sunday night, after Alice and Frank left for Edinburgh (who goes to Edinburgh for their honeymoon? I thought everyone on this side of the Atlantic was required to go to Paris for their honeymoon), but then again, I can't remember Alice and Frank leaving the wedding let alone my arrival at the apartment due to the drunken stupor I was in.

Monday night was different. After shoving my way in (the door always seemed to get stuck when I came home), my keys clattered onto the side table more loudly than usual. I think they even echoed. (Our apartment was, as rich as the Longbottoms were, not big enough to merit an echo). The lights were off, boxes of wedding gifts piled in the corners of the apartment, and the corners that were not occupied with charmed candles and Aunt Edwina's Self-Fluffing Pillows held empty boxes that were supposed to hold my belongings. If I ever got around to packing them, anyway.

By Tuesday, it was almost as if the apartment was trying to regurgitate me. The door stuck harder than usual and the clatter of my keys reverberated around the apartment, piercing sharply through the heavy silence. My bedroom—which I had attacked rather savagely the night before, throwing all my worldly belongings into the cardboard boxes—stood pale and empty, with only a bed in the center and a poster of Stubby Boardman that refused to come down. (Hopefully the Longbottom spawn would have an appreciation for the Hobgoblins.)

There was something offsetting about being alone in the apartment—truly alone, as Frank and Alice were off hugging sheep or whatever it is one does in Edinburgh—like it was haunted.

I fled into the kitchen quickly, to begin cooking an omelette (nothing shows failure as much as breakfast for dinner), in the hopes that the sizzling egg would ward off the eeriness of the silence.

I was really hoping there wasn't a rapist around.

It was only as I was already perched in bed with my omelette in my lap and a crappy romance novel (_The Moronic Muggle and his Virgin Witch_, anyone?) in my hand that I remembered Mrs. Longbottom. (The old Mrs. Longbottom, that is). Granted, my first thought was _fuck, I forgot the firewhiskey_, but that in turn reminded me that there was not, in fact, any firewhiskey in the house because grocery day (or buy all the alcohol and Cauldron Cakes day) was on Wednesday. Which in turn reminded me that it was a Tuesday.

Tuesdays only mean one thing in the Longbottom family. Tea with Augusta Longbottom. Or, rather, dinner with Augusta Longbottom; much to Mrs. Longbottom's displeasure, Frank's choice of career allowed him little time to spend with his precious mother.

So, every Tuesday since we graduated, Frank left for his mother's house at half past six on the dot. Lily and I came too, but Lily's mystery job left her with a schedule less flexible than Frank's, so most Tuesdays it was just Frank and I, gone to Augusta's.

Alice never got an invitation.

My omelette barely remained on the plate as I sat up from my favorite wallowing position. The clock said 6:26.

"_Fuck_," I muttered under my breath, as I leapt out of bed and bounded towards the closet. Dinner at Mrs. Longbottom's was not a casual affair.

Of course, I had so conveniently forgotten that I had packed away the contents of my closet the night before, so I had to rifle through the relatively neat contents of the brown boxes (leaving them looking like they had barely survived a tornado), until I found a passable sweater and a clean skirt. Seeing as my robes all were the wrong color (Augusta Longbottom never learned to accept the fashion for pinstripes) or torn all the way down the side, I would have to borrow some of Alice's robes. What Mrs. Longbottom didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Of course, Alice had impeccable taste. Mrs. Longbottom would probably recognize it, if she hadn't been so stubborn.

At 6:31, I was out of the apartment and on Augusta Longbottom's front porch.

I suppose I didn't have to visit Mrs. Longbottom—Frank was still off hugging sheep and Alice (ew)—but all I could think of was Augusta, sitting alone in her house, probably withering away from lack of society. Eating omelettes in her bed. Reading terrible, terrible romance novels.

I mean, I knew what that was like. I hadn't spoken to a proper person since the wedding, two nights before. Goneril doesn't count—she just yells at you—and, well, I didn't even think you could count my wedding date as a person.

An auror was the last career I would have wanted him to have. Yet, I supposed it made sense—he was self-entitled in the way only an auror could be. (No offense to Frank and Alice).

But whatever the case, I was taken off guard on Monday night when my wedding date stood up from his desk, leaned forward, brandished my wand, and asked, "Is this yours?"

My answer might have been more civil had I not had a terrible day (or half hour, as the case may be). However, I had had a bad day, considering stupid Miss Pearls and the nice-new-sleek-gray-Lily-does-actually-care-about-me-robes and, of course, seeing my horrendous wedding date again.

So I growled at him.

Not a very savage, sphinx-protecting-her-cubs growl. Just a growl. But, you know. It was still a growl. Which is probably why he raised an eyebrow.

So, in return for his raised eyebrow, I grabbed my wand, muttered _levicorpus_ under my breath (not all of us can be as good at nonverbal spells as Lily), and before the arse knew it, he was upside down. And I had, possibly, removed his pants. Forcibly.

Retrospectively, that might not have been the best idea. I mean, for starters, it's not very nice. Or humane. Or something that Lily and Frank would approve of. Or my mum, for that matter. I know I'm not the nicest person and all—I'm way too cynical and jaded (though you would think that to be either one of those a person would have to be more experienced than me)—but I would like to think that I'm not completely and irrationally cruel. Of course, on the other hand, it's not like hanging a guy upside down and taking off his pants is _that_ bad. Like, _oh no!_ the blood is rushing to his head and he's getting a slight breeze to his privates! Whatever shall we do? Besides, you would think that a guy as man-whorish as I thought my date was would be able to handle his pants being taken off.

I digress.

Hanging the guy upside down meant that I couldn't make as clean a get away as I wanted. Also, it meant more time spent flaunting my broken seams—and trying to hold onto the side of your robes and to maneuver your arm around in order to jinx some prat at the same time is rather hard.

As for the whole pants thing, little did I know the teasing it would cause me later. And, I _accidentally_ glimpsed his legs. They were pretty nice. For a total arse, anyway.

But, as Frank will surely tell you in length, I am not exactly known for thinking. That doesn't mean I _can't_ think. But most of my thinking tends to be done retroactively. You know the feeling; you're trying to go to sleep, but then visions of you calling Jervis Cauldwell "Daddy" or of you referring to Professor Sinistra as an overgrown flobberworm with a poorly calibrated sense of direction only to find out that she was right behind you and you're sentenced to detention for like an eternity (or the rest of fifth year—thank Merlin I dropped that class after OWLs), and then you can't sleep a wink because you are stuck in the worst nightmare of all—your own life. And I'm only being a little melodramatic here.

"Okay, you've made your point. Can you let me down now?"

His question broke my rapt attention to the tuft of hair peeking from above his blue boxers. Or from below. Depends what perspective you were looking at it from. And I may or may not have been imagining multiple perspectives.

My brow furrowed. "Do you even know what my point is?"

"Does that mean you're going to let me down, or what?"

"I don't know; are you going to answer my question?"

"I asked you first, so shouldn't you answer first?"

I frowned. "What's with all the questions?"

Inexplicably, he burst into laughter. I wondered if this is what being an auror reduces men to. Of course, Frank never acted like this. Then again, Frank never laughed—he just stood and judged. However, the laughter wasn't the laughter of a criminally insane person. His eyes shone—not the maniacal way of a wacko, but in the exhilarated way of a three year old introduced to ice cream.

"What's so funny?"

He laughed even harder. My frown deepened. I did the only sensible thing: I let the jerk fall.

He better not have been laughing at me.

The fall quieted his laughter, but he was still giggling softly, his chest moving up and down sporadically as he tried to regain his breath.

Remember how I said I don't think before I act? Yeah. This is one of those times. I proceeded with what I saw as my only option, and straddled the man, bringing my nose barely an inch away from his. If I had been thinking, I might have been worried about a repeat performance of that broom closet incident on Sunday, but fortunately for my nerves that was probably the last thing on my mind.

Cornelius was not the type of guy who I thought about in the context of kissing. (Boy, I turned out to be wrong on that count).

"Seriously, answer me…whatever your name is," I hissed at his right eye.

He snorted.

"Cornelius. My name is Cornelius."

I glared at him.

"You know, considering all that we went through that night, I'm pretty surprised you didn't learn my name," Cornelius smirked. "You really are a terrible date, aren't you?"

"Just answer the question."

Cornelius blinked—something I was definitely aware of, as I was close enough to feel his eyelashes on my cheek. "What was the question again?"

"I…"

I stopped, pulled away from Cornelius and let go of his shirt. I had forgotten. Inwardly berating myself, I climbed off of him. Honestly, only Cornelius could piss me off so much that I would go to such drastic lengths for nothing.

"Nice bra," he said, with a wink. In return, I stomped on his privates.

Again, I'm not so good with the thinking thing. I would regret that one. I mean, Cornelius kind of deserved something bad to happen, but no one deserves _that_. Unfortunately for mankind, I had not yet realized how despicable a thing it was for one to attack a man in such a vulnerable place.

Instead, I stomped off down the hallway in order to find Alice's office and get the papers she wanted, hoping desperately that I would never have to see Cornelius again.

At Hogwarts, I had always been the cool one. Or at least, that's how I always liked to think of myself. While I was not as popular as, say, the marauders, with their pranks, or Desdemona Fletchley, with her ability to sleep with every male in a five mile radius, I had mastered the one thing that every teenager strives for: not caring. There was very little I gave a shit about.

Nothing fazed me: student drama, house drama, academic drama, family drama, relationship drama, drama. The only thing that ever really bothered me was that I had to wake up and go to class—but, given that was expected of me at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I got over that qualm pretty fast. So, whereas other students spent their time worrying and snogging and fighting and snogging and working and snogging and crying, I was sleeping and eating cauldron cakes. It was a beautiful existence.

I always prided myself on being the calm one in my group of friends. Unlike Lily, who spent all her time agonizing over James, and Frank, who tried to micromanage his life and others', I was content. Sure, some people (Lily and Frank) disparaged my lack of effort in classwork, but in the end, it didn't matter. So what if I didn't sit in the front of the classroom drooling over McGonagall? I may not have been top of the class like them, but I still graduated and I still landed a job.

And outside of class, I was a gift from heaven. I'm not even exaggerating there—during all of Lily's hormonal monologues in which she was vacillating over James Potter or Snape or whatever, she has told me that many times. Whether _she_ remembers calling me such, I can't say. Fortunately, I never had to deal with a weeping Frank curled over me eating ice cream, but I did do that once for Alice. Frank is not exactly the crying type—he prefers panic attacks, I've found, as I've calmed him down from quite a few of those. You would think that his wife (then girlfriend) would be able to handle his mental breakdowns by now, but Alice never had a gift for not giving a crap, which is really the only way to get Frank to stop worrying about the color of the groomsmen's cufflinks. Honestly.

But, the point is, I thought of myself as the queen of no drama. Subsequently, I was having my own little panic attack as I realized how worked up Cornelius had gotten me. What had I done? Why?

I smacked myself repeatedly on the forehead on my way to Alice's office.

But, chances were, I would never have to see Cornelius again. Thank Merlin.

Or at least, that's what I thought.

Alice Longbottom, much unlike her newly husband, was not neat. At least, she was not neat when it came to her desk. Upon seeing her desk for the first time, I was surprised Frank hadn't dumped her by then. There were random papers everywhere, which not only primed her desk for a paper avalanche but made my job of finding the right set of papers rather difficult. As I delved further into the heap of parchment, I found also a multitude of pumpkin pasty wrappers (inferior to cauldron cakes), an Agrippa chocolate frog collecting card (also inferior to cauldron cakes), a tampon wrapper (how that got there, I don't really want to know), and two crushed spiders. Big spiders.

It was when I found the second spider that the top of the paper mountain began to slowly slide down as my hand upset the precarious balance. The few papers on top tipped over, bringing down the papers beneath them, and the papers beneath those, leaving a small pile of papers on the floor. I did not notice these papers as my hand grasped Alice's briefcase under the large pile of papers. Unfortunately, I soon noticed the few papers near my feet when I stepped on them and slipped, falling down and pulling the briefcase after me. And that was how Alice's hoard of paper began rushing for my collapsed body.

I fairly sure I would have died, or at least have spent the rest of my life whining about the paper cuts, had the rush of paper not stopped curiously in midair.

"What the fuck?" I began to mutter to myself as I began to clamber back up. Or, I meant to say that. It really came out as "What the" because my head hit Alice's desk before I could finish the thought.

I was having a terrible day.

And it only got worse when I realized that the person who had halted the paper landslide was none other than my worst nightmare come back to haunt me once again.

"Are you okay?" Cornelius asked, rushing over to me, probably in order to mock my misery. (Which he kind of deserved to do after all that I had just done to him—but I was not exactly in a sanguine mood at the time).

"What do you think?" I muttered as I rolled myself over, to find one green eye and one hazel eye looking me right in the eye. It was quite disconcerting.

Was that what it was like for Cornelius when I straddled him?

I closed my eyes at the thought. Cornelius was _not_ a good guy. He simply couldn't be.

"Whoa! Don't fall asleep!" Cornelius said, frantically shaking me.

I opened an eye. "Who said I was falling asleep? And what's it to you?"

Shoving the git off of myself, I stood up and eyed the damage. Paper everywhere. I really hoped that Alice's papers weren't in some obscure organizational system. The pile of papers—which in no way resembled the mountain they were previously—reached mid-ankle and had flooded the floor all around Alice's desk. There was no way I would find the papers Alice wanted now.

"_Fuck_," I sighed, as I resigned myself to failure.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Cornelius asked, hovering around me like an annoying insect—but one of those insects that never leave because they're too small and fast to swat (also you don't want to compromise your comfortable cauldron-cake-eating, crappy-romance-novel-reading position in bed in order to make an effort at killing a bug) and the insect flies into your ear and everything and you can't even concentrate on the sentence you're reading about Achille (the sexy Italian wizard lover who jilted his arranged marriage in order to fuck the main character senseless, all while defeating the goblins who have been trying to repossess his family inheritance and land) and his turgid member.

Cornelius probably never battled goblins in order to save his family inheritance.

What was I saying?

Right.

Cornelius was hovering around me in the most annoying fashion possible, and trust me, it is quite hard trying to focus on the impossible task of finding nondescript papers in a large heap of nondescript papers. Like finding a few specific pieces of hay in a haystack. And having some guy bothering me and insisting I sit down was not helping at all.

Finally, a nerve broke; I turned to Cornelius, my eyes narrowed in one of my better glares (at least, I hope it was one of my not crazy looking glares), poked him in the chest, and quickly told him, "Leave me the fuck alone. Can you not see that I am kind of busy trying to find a folder or I don't even know if they're in a folder, of work to bring home for my friend, but now everything is messed up and I've failed again and I cannot stand you. You are annoying, you know that, right? Have you ever tried working, but some inconsiderate arse is around you constantly talking about what boy band he's gay for or whatever? I honestly don't give a shit, okay? Go tell Desdemona—I'm sure she has connections and arrange for you to fulfill whatever sick fantasy. Okay? Okay?"

I would just like to say that I don't normally say okay that much.

Next thing I knew, there was a folder labeled in thick calligraphy "FOR HONEYMOONING LAYABOUTS" right in my face. This could only be the work of the infamous Mad-eye Moody.

A small laugh came from my right, and looking up at the source, I found Cornelius was the one presenting me with the folder. Great. Now I'd have to thank him.

"What?" I eyed him warily as I grabbed the folder from his hands.

"It's just"—here he giggled (what sort of man giggles?)—"that I've never seen you so happy as when you saw that folder. Your whole face sort of lit up."

By the time he finished snorting (his laugh was not the most attractive—it was a breathy giggle and a snot-loosening snort hybrid), I'm pretty sure whatever light he had seen had been extinguished.

"Thanks for the folder," I grumbled softly, hoping his preoccupation with laughing would keep him from hearing me.

"What was that?" Cornelius asked, eyebrows high, stupid laugh vanished. "A thank you? From Marlene McKinnon?"

I frowned. "Who told you my last name?"

That was bad news—the more personal we got the more likely we'd bump into each other again; I think I had run out of tolerance for "serendipitously" bumping into the prat.

"I know your brother," Cornelius said, with a tone that was too patronizing for my tastes.

"Well, I said thank you. Would you go now?"

Cornelius didn't get the (blatant) hint.

"So, do you work in the auror's office? I've never seen you around before."

I raised an eyebrow at him, with the resolve to not speak another word to him.

"Does that mean yes?" Cornelius asked, leaning into me. I didn't answer. "I'll take that as a yes" he continued, his cheery tenor undiminished. "So you're one of the field officers, aren't you? Probably why I haven't seen you around very often. Any exciting cases? Or are you on Rookwood? I bet you are—Moody's got almost everyone on Rookwood. Don't know if I agree. I mean, Moody knows what he's doing and all, but Rookwood's one guy. How bad can one guy be? And there are still too many other Death Eaters out there for us to all be focused on one guy. But, hey, there's a reason I don't have Moody's job."

Cornelius stopped and looked around the office. "Nice job decorating," he said, staring at the carpet. "Your desk, is great. Is that mahogany?"

He ran his hand over the edge of the desk, until he suddenly hit his hand, shook off the impact, and pushed a few papers back to find the source of the blow. Then he found the little plaque that read "ALICE LONGBOTTOM".

"Oh. This isn't your office then."

I grimaced at him.

"Right!" he grinned. "Alice is the bird who got married. That explains the bit Moody added about honeymoons—I thought he'd gone off his rocker. Unless you had a secret life or somethin'. Much more sense this way—you don't seem like to type to be married."

My mouth opened and the folder dropped.

Cornelius' eyebrows bunched.

The corners of my eyes began to prickle, and I dropped to the ground to collect the sprawled papers, thankful to have the opportunity to turn away.

"Marlene, I"—

"You know, I need to go now," I said, my back to him, my gaze not leaving the floor. I stood up, still refusing to look at him, and turned around quickly, shoved past him and left Alice's office.

On an impulse, I stopped at the threshold, and still refusing to turn around, I told him, "I'm not an auror."

And then I dashed toward the elevator.

Back on Mrs. Longbottom's porch, I shook my head at the thought. There was something off about that day—yelling at the man one minute and practically bawling my eyes out the next. My eyes opened onto the wood floor, where I found the day's copy of the Daily Prophet lying unopened, untouched.

Strange. Mrs. Longbottom was always on top of things; she would never forget to bring in the newspaper—at precisely 7:13 in the morning, when the owl came. Augusta Longbottom was nothing if not precise.

What was even stranger was that it was already 6:32, a minute after I had rung the bell and Mrs. Longbottom had still not shown up. Images of Frank's mother lying prostrate on the ground, blood oozing from—

The door creaked open.

"Marlene, I didn't know if you would be coming. It is so nice to see you. Please, do come in," said the matronly alto that was as familiar to me as my mother's voice.

With a smile, I kissed Augusta on the cheek and stepped into the house, wiping my shoes off on the mat. After the formalities, I held out the Prophet. "You must have forgotten to bring in the paper."

Augusta raised her eyebrows disdainfully at the paper. "Oh, I didn't forget Marlene. I've found the Prophet and I are at an impasse, and I won't be reading it anymore."

I quickly dropped the paper back outside the door before turning back to Mrs. Longbottom rather confusedly. "What happened?"

"The editor wrote a quite dreadful editorial the other day. He wanted the Ministry to start getting involved in international trade—impose tariffs and other things that only muggles would ever consider doing. I dare say the idea is preposterous; one should realize that if they are buying a Serbian wand, it is bound to backfire at some point."

Without thinking, I blurted out, "I thought that the editorial was more about encouraging international trade. Yes, obviously there's merit in weeding out the more unfortunate international products—we don't want to repeat the infamous Mungo's Cauldron Meltdown of 1889—but international trade regulations also help both domestic and global economies to grow. Regulations prevent more corrupt trade practices; there are plenty of British businesses that lock out foreign competitors through less desirable methods. And with more competitors, British consumers get more choices and better prices."

I had been a bit of a History of Magic fan growing up. I never mentioned it to any of my friends—Merlin, I even tried to deny it to myself. But I never found history sleep inducing—Binns' monotone voice, yes, but he was rather funny when you got past that. And the thing is, if you really think about it, history all revolves around economics, so it was hard to not learn a little something about the economy.

But I could have bitten my tongue off at that moment. Mrs. Longbottom was suddenly looking at me like I had grown another head.

"I must have misread it," I lied sheepishly. I could feel my cheeks burning.

Fortunately for me, Mrs. Longbottom was just stubborn enough to be blind to my mistake, and so carried on as normal. "Well, I should have predicted that the Prophet would have been on _that_ side. They're journalists, so naturally they're all liberals."

Mrs. Longbottom marched on into the tea room she used for small dining parties. The walls were a rich royal blue, just like Cornelius' boxers. I could feel my blush rising; there couldn't be anything more improper than thinking of scantily clad men in the house of the formidable Augusta Longbottom.

It was soon apparent that Mrs. Longbottom did not have the same qualms. While she never mentioned nude males specifically, even I could understand her subtle hints. And her not so subtle hints.

"I was talking with Griselda the other day, and we both agreed that it is a curiously strange feeling to lose one's children to marriage. Of course, I hadn't had Frank for awhile—he prescribes to the notion of living with one's spouse before marriage," Augusta sniffed, only a bit outwardly perturbed. "Very modern, I am told. But it is still quite different to know your only child now belongs to another woman. Of course, though I have yet to tell him this, things will change once they have children of their own. I do hope it is soon. I must say it is ill advised to have a child when one is older. One simply does not have the energy to run around after children after a certain age. And Alice must be the one to stay home with the children; I will hear none of this nonsense of her keeping her job. Truly, if the woman cannot provide me with healthy grandchildren she has failed, and I should not like to be wrong in letting Frank continue with her."

I nodded meekly and took another sip of the sauvignon blanc Augusta insisted upon. My duck confit and dragon tartar (which had been elegantly concocted by Mrs. Longbottom's house elf and officiously presented by Mrs. Longbottom herself) were long gone, and the remnants of the green salad were still scattered around my plate as I occasionally picked at the goat cheese in apricot vinaigrette. There was nothing as pretentious as goat cheese in apricot vinaigrette. But I wouldn't dare say that to Augusta Longbottom.

That said, there was barely anything I said to Augusta Longbottom that night. Maybe it was because I was still recovering from my earlier gaffe and didn't want to aggravate my standing in her eyes, or maybe it was because I was a generally uninformed person and had nothing of interest to say (which I find is usually the case). However, I would be inclined to say that it was because I couldn't get in a word if I wanted to. I find it is always a wise idea to let someone talk when they want to talk. And Mrs. Augusta Longbottom always had something to say.

And that night, her topic of choice was marriage.

"Now, you, Marlene, are still looking for a man to marry, are you not? Naturally, you would be. I mentioned you to Griselda and she agreed that we will easily find you someone. Lily managed to get a Potter, though I hope they will get married soon."

"Oh," I started, putting down my glass of wine. "James proposed to her on Saturday."

I quickly raised the glass back up to my lips to take another much-needed gulp.

"Excellent. Of course, Mr. Potter was brought up by Dorea to be chivalrous. If only she had managed to stamp out those ridiculous ideas that Charlus always seemed to be proposing. But, naturally, the Potters are very stubborn and I suppose there is nothing one can do about it. Maybe if you had been the one to marry James you could have stopped their nonsense."

My eyes widened as I coughed heavily, and slammed down the wine glass.

Augusta spared only a cursory look before returning her gaze to the portraits of austere and proper couples in baroque frames that held court in the royal blue tea room.

"But I am sure Griselda and I will find you someone of merit. If you remember, Griselda has a great nephew who is sure to have suitable views. I shall talk to her and we can arrange for the two of you to meet."

At that point my eyes watered up to the point that I was not able to concentrate on anything other than my efforts to keep my watering eyes from turning into tears. (I can only guess as to what Augusta Longbottom would have to say about that). By the time the wine crisis had been averted and I had removed the wine glass from temptation's reach, Augusta had (thankfully) worn out the subject of my impending arranged marriage.

Augusta must have missed Frank. Usually she was not able to continue such an impassioned speech for so long.

But eventually we turned back to the usual pleasantries that Mrs. Longbottom lived off. I suppose I could relate the conversation we had thereafter about the new specialty cauldron store opening in Diagon Alley (Toil and Trouble, it was called) and the effects the International Warlock Convention of 1289 on the creation of modern transfiguration.

Yes, I'm sure most of that sounds rather boring and trivial. Surely Lily and Frank spend their time talking about more dramatic things: you know, saving the world and romance and shit. But I like talking about Toil and Trouble and the International Warlock Convention of 1289. And Mrs. Longbottom was one of the few people who actually remember that there was an International Warlock Convention of 1289.

Though it was definitely strange dealing with an unmitigated Augusta Longbottom, I can't say I'm not happy to be able to talk about some things without either Frank rolling his eyes or Lily yawning.

Anyway, it wasn't long before Augusta subtly declared her need for beauty sleep and I was kissing her cheek and apparating back to my soon to be ex-home.

I threw away the now droopy omelette, vanished the cheese that had dripped onto my sheets, and almost found myself sucked into the trite declarations of love in _The Moronic Muggle and his Virgin Witch_, but decided against it when I yawned. It wasn't really a surprise I was sleepy at only 8:33 after all the sauvignon blanc I had nervously sipped.

With a sigh, I tossed the book onto the floor, stripped off my robes, and headed to return them to Alice's room. It was after I had carefully hung up the robes that the gleam of Alice's briefcase caught my attention from its place perched on the bed. I had not gotten more than a passing glance at the papers I shoved into the briefcase due to Cornelius, but I had ample opportunity now.

Hesitantly, I inched forward towards the briefcase. On one hand, I was more than curious about the secret missions and whatnot Frank and Alice always kept from me. But on the other hand, I (if a bit absurdly) feared some sort of auror team force coming to kill me as soon as I opened the papers.

Dear Merlin, I was going to give myself nightmares.

I fingered the dragon skin clasp on the briefcase, but it wasn't until I dropped the clasp and exhaled loudly that I realized I had been holding my breath. Then I decided that if I was getting that worked up about it, then I probably shouldn't do it. Especially before bed. After all, I could always look at the papers the next day when I was thinking more clearly.

And with that, I headed for the bathroom.

If you were to ask Frank the first thing that came to mind when he thought of me, he would say clutter. And he's right. My room was in a permanent state of disarray that no spring-cleaning or Magical Mess Remover could fix. My bed had been made twice—at most—since I left the strict confines of my mother's house. And there were Cauldron Cake wrappers everywhere. Frank always called me a slug because I left a trail of slime behind me. (I would always deny this claim on the grounds that my mess was never sticky). The only place this didn't apply to was my bathroom.

In the beginning, my bathroom was white. And it never changed a shade. It just stayed glaringly white. The soft rug I added stayed soft. The gleaming counters never once stopped gleaming, and the only thing I ever put on the counter itself was a plain white bar of soap on top of a simple green soap tray. Any other evidence of the war against my body was neatly stowed away in the drawers and the tidy cabinet behind the mirror.

The bathroom was not large, but I dreaded returning to the bathroom at home. My parent's home, that is; I didn't really have a definite home those days. Despite more room, the bathroom at home was always more constricting, with four siblings banging on the door. Bubble baths were never as relaxing as they should have been. Granted, when I returned home, Marianne and Margaret would be at Hogwarts, Martin would be living with Tom, and Marcy would practically be living at Mungos, but that bathroom has always had certain associations for me. And can you ever truly relax in a bathroom that has no available surfaces due to the clutter of five people's lives?

Sometimes I wished I were an only child.

But, that night I was not assaulted by overwhelming coconut shampoos or toothpaste volcanoes. It was just my pristine bathroom.

As I was so impatient to go to bed, it was completely logical that I should spend five minutes staring blankly into the mirror before getting into the shower.

There is a certain clairvoyance that comes with utter exhaustion. In one's first waking moments and one's last thoughts of the day, when logic and coherence are thrown entirely out the window, one realizes things that would never have been thought of before. It's just too bad that the reason of the fully awake tends to overlook the truth when it is wrapped in the hazy delirium of sleep.

But my realizations that night were not the happy discovery of the meaning of life or the next step in vanquishing You-Know-Who. As I stood facing the mirror, a dull face stared back at me. And I realized that was my face.

A rather mundane epiphany, yes. But I realized it anyway. How often does a person actually look at their face? Not very often. Most people go through life without ever truly facing themselves. And I stood there, in my considerably bewildered state concentrating on my nose. It was a rather strange shape. It was a normal shaped nose—though, really, what was normal anymore?—except for the rather bulbous end of my nose. Well. Not bulbous. It was round. More round than usual noses. Not that I looked at noses very much.

Maybe I had just been staring at my nose too long—familiarity only leads to assessment. But staring at my nose led me to staring at other things. Like the blackheads that seemed to multiply on my nose. My skin was not perfect. Lily's was. She always seemed to have flawless skin. Did she just use a lot of make-up? Somehow I doubted it.

Eying the shower, I tugged off my robes, leaving them in a haphazard pile for me to deal with later. Once again, my eyes flew to the mirror. My chest had always been a particular point of pride for me—the one thing that I could feel proud of no matter what scrutiny I subjected myself to. Yet, as soon as I took off my bra, my breasts lolled lazily to the side, pointing in opposite directions like the eyes of a dim-witted fish. It never ceased to amaze me how much guys wanted girls to take their bras off; without the support of a bra, I always felt that breasts looked remarkably like the puffy chest of a fat boy. (This resemblance was only helped by my love of Cauldron Cakes).

I had to take my shower eventually. After I turned on the tap, I swung the mirror on the medicine cabinet to face the wall, and climbed into the shower.

The problem with being alone is that the only person left to judge is yourself.


End file.
